Nightmares
by KaleidoscopeKreation
Summary: Germany never quite realised how much their friendship meant to Italy... or how afraid he was of losing it. A Christmas present for GypsyxSilent and GerIta shippers everywhere.


**A/N****: Well, hi there, everyone! I'm here, writing a Christmas fic for my very good friend GypsyxSilent, who recently got obsessed with Hetalia (as in, even more recently than I did) and requested a Germany x Italy oneshot. She said she'd like something in which Germany has to comfort Italy, and I thought for a while, but was unable to come up with an appropriate scenario. But then, due to some painful personal experience on the subject over the last few days, I thought: why not nightmares?**

* * *

Germany was sitting in a world meeting, feeling indescribably bored.

World meetings were never particularly interesting, and nothing much ever seemed to get done. Most nations only seemed to turn up to flirt, fight, or burble on irrationally about some whim which they were briefly convinced would change the world. Nobody seemed to take them seriously at all, other than, of course, Germany himself.

Tedious and frustrating and an utter waste of his valuable time. With a heavy sigh, Germany propped his chin up with his head and gave up all pretence of attentiveness to the matter in hand, instead, looking absently around the courtroom until his eyes fell on something very unusual.

It is interesting that the mind is drawn so much more to imperfections – it is an ancient survival mechanism. Anything out of place, anything that isn't _right_ must be noted straight away; it can mean the difference between life and death.

In this case, Germany's attention was on a person, whom he knew well enough to be certain was entirely not right: Feliciano, the pasta-loving personification of Northern Italy.

His bright brown eyes were half-closed and focussed unseeingly on the table in front of him, ringed with dark purple circles; his face was paler than usual, his back was slumped and his mouth turned down at the corners. Even his haywire curl seemed to droop. Italy was clearly dead on his feet.

Germany scrutinised him carefully, a frown gradually forming on his face as he took in the details with surprise and concern. Italy was usually the life and soul of a World meeting, brightly chattering away to anyone who would listen about his latest hare-brained schemes involving pasta and fine art. This new, exhausted Italy was entirely strange, and definitely not right. Germany found himself wondering what could be wrong. Some drought or famine he hadn't heard about? Or perhaps some social problem... maybe a girl? His frown grew still deeper. He had always known Italy was romantic, and heartbroken dejectedness could be the cause...

Just then, Italy seemed to sense the gaze that was trained on him, and looked up with a start. His eyes met Germany's, and he mustered a smile that looked more like a grimace, before hastily dropping his eyes and slumping back into his previous state.

Germany dropped his eyes and sighed, unable even to try and concentrate on the meeting now. What could be wrong with Italy? Could he help? The irrational concern which was growing inside him was distracting in every way; it was really none of his business, after all. Every country went through its rough patches. But Feliciano was usually so very happy... optimistic and oblivious and annoyingly cheerful. It was as though the sun had gone behind a cloud.

He resolved to say something as soon as the meeting was over.

* * *

The clock struck twelve, and Germany gave a great sigh of relief.

Nations got to their feet with a great scraping and shuffling, loud groans of relief issuing from the less reserved members of the group. Germany got to his feet and started purposefully forward, only to see that Italy was already on his feet and shuffling toward the door, head bowed and stifling a huge yawn behind his hand.

'Feliciano!' Germany called, and Italy jumped and turned around, looking confusedly around to see who had called his name. Germany waved, and Italy focussed on him. To Germany's surprise, he looked less than pleased to see him.

'Hey, Germany – ' he started to say, but the crush for the door was pushing him forward, and he had to move forward. 'I'll see you...' and then he was out of earshot, and the rush ceased.

The room suddenly seemed very quiet. Germany looked around at the few stragglers packing things or exchanging words with other nations. Alfred was adjusting his spectacles, which had been bent slightly out of shape by a glancing blow to the head from Cuba, while Hungary was helping Austria rety his cravat, which had been pulled uncomfortably tight by Prussia as a parting shot. Germany made a mental note to have a few words with his brother.

And then Germany noticed Romano, over by the coffee machine.

His first instinct was to get out before Southern Italy picked a fight – the two of them were not the best of friends, to say the least – but then another thought came to him. Romano was Feliciano's brother, yes? Perhaps he would know the cause of the nation's unhappiness. Though perhaps not; _he_ would never confide in Prussia, after all...

...Well, anyway, it was worth a try.

'Romano,' he said in a carrying voice, and watched as the nation looked up irritably from the coffee machine, his scowl deepening when he saw who was hailing him.

'Germany,' he said with obvious distaste. 'What do you want?'

Germany crossed the room in a few strides, and Romano tensed slightly, as though afraid of a fight.

'I just wanted to ask you something, Romano. About your brother.'

Romano locked even further into defensive mode. 'What about him?'

'I noticed that seemed to be a bit... ill-looking today. Do you know what's wrong?'

'Why should I tell you what's wrong with him? It's not your business!'

'So there is something wrong?'

'Yes. Why don't you just ask him?'

'Because he left before I could speak to him.'

'Well, maybe he doesn't want you to know, then!'

Germany felt himself beginning to lose patience. 'You know what's wrong with him, Romano, and you're not telling me purely out of childish – '

'Hey, guys,' Alfred's drawl cut across the room, 'cut it out, you're giving me a headache.'

'I want to know what was wrong with Feliciano,' Germany said firmly.

Romano sighed. 'Fine, if you're that bothered. Last night, he didn't sleep very well.'

Germany sensed that there was more that Romano wasn't telling, but he was going to give it up as a bad job and go, when from behind him, he heard Hungary speak.

'Oh, poor Feliciano. Was he having nightmares again?'

Romano looked surprised and defensive. 'How – how do you know that? Feliciano has never told anyone other than me – '

'You forget, Romano,' Austria interrupted, 'that your brother lived with us for a while as a child.'

Alfred moved closer to the group, interested in the gossip from centuries before his time. 'So Italy had nightmares?'

'Oh yes,' Hungary said, her eyes distant, 'He used to wake up, frequently, screaming and crying, and I would always have to leave my bed and calm him down before he could sleep again. The poor little thing would never tell me what he dreamt about – as though the nightmares were too awful even to talk about.'

Austria nodded. 'Sometimes he would walk, too – I recall once I woke to hear him playing an utter cacophony on my piano, in the middle of the night. But after a while the nightmares stopped, and so I put it down to a growing-up phase.'

'Combined with the stress of being a servant,' Hungary added.

Austria looked uncomfortable. 'Perhaps that too.'

'He's only just started doing it again,' Romano put in. 'It's an intermittent thing, he says.'

Germany stared at his shoes and debated what he had just heard. He himself had always been a sound sleeper – he could remember having only a few dreams, and those of a very nondescript nature. The idea of having dreams so vivid that they made one forget oneself made his stomach contract in pity.

_

* * *

_

Rrrrriiiiinngg...

Germany gradually became aware of the sound coming from beside his bed.

_Rrrrriiiiinngg..._

_Rrrrriiiiinngg..._

_Rrrrriiiiinngg..._

He groaned a little bit, and sat up. Who on Earth could be calling at this time of night?

He felt for his phone in the dark, and picked it up. 'Hello?'

'Germany, _Germany_!' he froze. It was Italy.

'Italy, are you alright? What's – '

'Germany, help! Germany-' and then a burst of heartbroken sobbing.

'Italy, what is wrong? Where are you? Italy, talk to me!'

'Germany...' And then the phone went dead.

He sat there for a few seconds, gazing forward and wondering what to do. His first impulse was to go straight to Italy without waiting for a moment, but then rational thoughts started to assert themselves in his mind. Hungary had told him about Italy's tendency towards nightmares earlier that day (or was it yesterday, now?). Could it be that Italy had called him in some semi-conscious frame of mind? On further consideration, that seemed like the most likely explanation.

Germany shook his head. There was no point in dropping everything to help Italy right now; he was in no real danger and would probably be asleep again by the time he got there. However, Germany resolved to visit Italy as soon as he could. These nightmares were damaging Feliciano's health, and it was the least he could do to support him through it, as an ally and a friend.

The matter decided, he clambered back into bed. But sleep took a long time to return, and Italy's sobs haunted his memories far into the night.

* * *

Germany got out of the dusty, white Italian taxi and went to remove his suitcase from the boot, only to find that the speedy driver had beaten him to it. He smiled charmingly and Germany handed him his fee and a generous tip – Feliciano's house was at the top of a steep, winding hilltop road that he would not have enjoyed driving along himself.

The man accepted the money with a broad grin and a burst of incredibly fast Italian. Germany nodded politely, took his suitcase and headed up the road to the large white house.

He approached the porch, and knocked. There was a pause, in which he could hear the hum of insects, and a dog barking somewhere in the distance. Then the door opened.

Italy looked, perhaps, even worse than he had done on their previous encounter. There were huge dark rings under his eyes, and his shoulders had a slump to them which suggested that he was bowed under some great burden. As he took in his unexpected guest, Germany was worried to see that his eyes did not light up as they usually did, and not even a half-hearted 'Germany!~' passed his lips. Instead, he looked positively unhappy at Germany's appearance, and his eyes flickered towards the door, as though he was considering whether to simply slam it shut. Germany waited for him to speak. He felt wrong-footed and hurt. What had he done to deserve such a reception?

Feliciano swallowed. 'Ludwig. I don't remember you saying you would visit today?'

'I decided to come after I received a worrying phone call from you in the middle of the night a few days ago.'

'What?'

'Don't you remember at all?' Germany asked incredulously.

Feliciano shuffled his feet. 'Well... I thought it might have... been a dream. I wasn't really sure...'

He looked so tired and distressed that Germany had an impulse to go forward and give him a hug; or perhaps just a comradely pat on the shoulder. Maybe mentioning his nightmares as an opening point to the visit hadn't been the best idea.

'Anyway, I'm here now,' he said, 'So it would be good if I could –'

Italy sighed. 'Of course,' he said resignedly, 'you'd better come in.'

* * *

Germany couldn't sleep.

He kept expecting a cry to come from Italy's room, and he was on constant tenterhooks, jumping every time a floorboard creaked. He was worried for his friend, and it was so difficult to wait like this, not wanting to fall asleep, uncertain if anything would even happen tonight. He didn't know how long Italy would let him stay here, in his new, unwelcoming state, or how often he had nightmares. Supposing he was kicked out the very next morning? He would have achieved nothing.

Germany turned over yet again, and let out a heavy sigh. He just couldn't figure out Feliciano. Why did he seem so reluctant to let Germany come near him? He would have thought that Italy would want all the help and comfort he could get...

Then it occurred to him that Italy had never actually told him that he was having these awful night-fears. This struck him as a fresh wound. Did Italy not trust him enough? Or, or maybe –

_Would _I _want anyone to know if I was in his situation?..._

Germany sat up, his eyes wide. Suddenly, it all made sense -

And then a scream erupted from the next room.

Germany shot upright and catapulted into the corridor.

To his surprise, he met Italy almost as soon as he left his own room.

He was stumbling down the landing, not zombie-like or vacant-looking as Germany would expect a sleepwalker to look, but wild-eyed and scared and fleeing away from his room as though it contained some unspeakable horror.

'Feliciano, are you alright?' Germany said. Italy reached forward and clutched at him like a life-line.

'Help! No, Germany!'

'Italy, Italy, it'll be alright, I'll take you back to your room and – '

'No, Germany, no...'

There was clearly no way he was going to make Italy go back there.

'Alright. Come to my room.'

He led the half-awake Feliciano back to his room, all the time being careful not to disturb him with sudden movements or noises. He'd read somewhere that it was unwise to wake sleepwalkers, and so he'd better wait until Feliciano woke up on his own.

He sat down awkwardly on his bed and tried to take up a small amount of space, guiding Italy gently to sit down. To his surprise, Italy immediately curled up into his side and started sobbing again.

'Germany, I... I...'

'It's alright, Feliciano. I'm here.'

'Germany...'

He had never heard his name repeated so many times. The wave of emotion that crashed over him was shaking and quite novel to him; he freed an arm and placed it around Italy, patting his back until gradually, his sobs began to quieten.

After a little while, he began to speak, quietly and as comfortingly as he could. 'I was thinking earlier in the night, and I realised why you were behaving the way you did. You were afraid I wouldn't understand about your nightmares, _ja_? That's why you avoided me.'

He felt Italy give a small nod against his chest.

'But I promise you that you don't need to worry. It's true – I've never had nightmares, or even many dreams, so perhaps I can't really understand what you are going through – but I can try to help. You're my comrade and I wouldn't abandon you in your hour of need.' He shook his head a little. 'Did you really think I would scorn you for something like this?'

There was a pause, and then Italy muttered sleepily.

'I dreamed... that you didn't want to be my friend anymore.'

Germany stiffened. So _this _was it.

'And that you... you said I was useless... you say that, but you really meant it this time... and you didn't want to be friends...' Italy hiccupped slightly, then continued, 'and you didn't need me... and to go away... and you had a gun... and you pointed it at me!' He choked back another sob.

Germany slumped, quite stupefied. Italy had been reduced to this state, because of _him_? A small, rational part of his brain was incredulous: surely the screaming and crying was an overreaction? Could anything he could say be that bad? How cruel, that he should make someone this unhappy, when his only desire was to help them!

Italy was quite awake by now, pouring out his troubles so the words tumbled over one another in the haste to get them out. 'And I wanted to be more like you, Germany, because you're so strong and good at everything, and I knew that you would never have anything stupid like a nightmare... and I thought you don't really need me, and it maybe it would be easier if I...' and Italy burst into tears again.

To his dismay, Germany found himself on the edge of tears as well. The quiet surge of emotion in his chest, the prickling behind his eyes, the desire to trust someone with your innermost thoughts and feelings... feelings that he repressed with cast-iron force nearly all the time. But he realised that the occasion for dignified reservations was long gone. So he hugged Feliciano tighter, and said quietly, 'you don't want to be like me – you're perfect exactly as you are. And Italy...' He sighed. 'I do need you. More than you realise.'

'Ludwig...' Germany started at the way Italy said his name; carefully, tenderly, as though it were a work of art. It was enough to make him blush.

'You should go to sleep now,' he said gruffly. 'You have a lot of sleep to catch up on...'

'Mmmyeah... we should make coffee in the morning, ve...?' Italy nestled more comfortably on his chest, and Germany suddenly realised that his vest was soaked through with Italy's tears. He grimaced a little. It wouldn't make comfortable sleeping – still, there was no way he was taking it off with Italy in this position.

Time seemed to stand still for a little while. The cicadas kept up their constant symphony, and his heart beat steadily in his chest, and Italy breathed deeply in and out, his funny curly strand of hair tickling Germany under the chin.

Then, just a moment before Germany himself started to sleep, Italy spoke again. 'Germany?'

'Hmm?'

'I think...' he yawned. '...nevermind. I'll tell you...' – another momentous yawn – 'in the morning. Night.'

'Oh... Alright.'

A quiet snore drifted up from where Italy lay. Germany smiled as he suddenly realised that Italy had draped himself in such a way that Germany couldn't wriggle out, even if he tried.

He bent down and whispered very quietly in his ear. 'Sweet dreams, Feliciano.'

He leant his head back against the headboard and listened to the cicadas chirp in the warm Italian night.

'Sweet dreams.'

* * *

**Merry Christmas!**


End file.
